


Then The Letting Go

by swilmarillion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: For all that the world had changed, this at least had stayed the same, and Círdan clung to it, to him, and lost himself in the pleasure of it.
Relationships: Círdan | Nowë/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25
Collections: 2020 My Slashy Valentine





	Then The Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deathangelgw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathangelgw/gifts).



> I'm imagining that when Maglor needs a break from wandering, he can always find a few days rest with Cirdan.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!!

Círdan had woken with a strange, portentous feeling, and he had known that something was going to happen. He had lain in bed for some time, eyes closed, breathing slow and regular, trying to focus his mind on the feeling, to search it out and bring it into the light. For all his practice, for all his long years and experience, the thing had evaded him, flitting back into the shadows of the future, the shape of it eluding his grasp. Even now, so many years since he had discovered the gift the Valar had given him, it frustrated him. The gift of sight could be a tricky thing; that he knew too well. Sometimes it came to him in bright, clear flashes, and he knew in his bones what was coming and what he should do. Other times, it was a feeling, a nudge, and insistent nag that made him restless and irritable.

It had stayed with him through rising, eaten at him as he broke his fast, this small but persistent feeling that something was coming. It drove him to distraction, and at last he gave up trying to do anything productive, knowing that he would find no peace until the thing, whatever it might be, revealed itself.

Círdan wrapped a cloak around himself and walked out into the chill of a winter morning. The wind sweeping off the sea was cold and sweet, and he breathed it in, feeling the chill of it seep into his chest. The sea had always been his refuge, and it soothed him now as it ever had before, washing the morning’s foreboding from his mind. He sat on the sand and looked out at the waves, feeling the tension drain from his body as he watched the whitecaps break and the foam spill itself onto the shore. 

A song came to him then, and he smiled fondly. It was a tune he hadn’t heard in ages, one that had long been forgotten and had, until this moment, passed from his own memory. It was a mournful song, a lament, and he remembered—

Sudden recognition jolted Círdan from his reverie, and his head snapped around, eyes searching out the source of the music. It didn’t take him long to find the lone figure walking slowly along the shoreline, head bowed, body wrapped in a ragged cloak. His hair was long and matted, his skin sallow and weathered and thin, stretched taut over the sharp angles of his face. He was rail-thin, and his clothes, though clearly oft-mended, were worn to the point of being threadbare. They hung from his gaunt frame, and he wrapped the cloak tighter about himself, shielding himself from the cold. 

Círdan knew him at once, and his heart leapt at the sight of a face and the sound of a voice he hadn’t heard in far too many years.

“Hello, Maglor,” Círdan said. 

The singer stopped and raised his head to look at Círdan. The eyes were the same, Círdan thought, deep and mournful and kind, though they were far more distant than when Círdan had seen them last. “Hello, ship-master,” Maglor said, a weak smile playing on his lips. 

A thousand questions bloomed on Círdan ’s lips, and his mind raced, trying to decide which to ask first. But Maglor began to cough, a deep, wracking sound that shook his thin shoulders and doubled him over, and Círdan pushed them all from his mind. “Come,” he said, taking Maglor’s arm and letting him lean against him. “Let’s get you inside.”

*****

Maglor ate like a creature half-starved—which, by the look of him, was not far from the truth. He said nothing while he ate and drank but a murmur of thanks, and Círdan let him be. He could see the tiredness in Maglor’s eyes, in the way his shoulders slumped and the gradual slowing of his hands. When he was finished, Círdan led Maglor to a guest room where a hot bath waited. He busied himself in checking that there were towels, and then he went to fetch a change of clothes. Maglor’s were worn and dirty, and Círdan suspected they ought to be thrown away.

When he got back, Maglor was soaking in the tub, his long hair pooling out around him as he sunk low into the basin. He startled when Círdan entered, and Círdan felt a stab of apprehension. “I’m sorry,” Círdan said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

There was a familiar hint of mischief in Maglor’s smile that made Círdan’s heart ache, and he realized all at once how much he had missed him. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he said slyly, his grin widening as Círdan rolled his eyes.

“You’d think by now I’d know how wasted politeness is on you,” Círdan said, laying the clothes on the bed and crossing his arms.

“You’d think,” Maglor agreed. “Though, in your defense, it’s been a while since you last saw me.”

“A very long while,” Círdan said. He winced at the reproach that slipped into the words.

Maglor had the grace to look contrite. “I didn’t mean for it to be so long,” he said.

“You never do,” Círdan said. Their eyes met for a moment, and Maglor looked away, drawing his hands lightly through the bubbles that had formed on the surface of the water. 

“I know,” Maglor said, and Círdan could hear the apology in his voice. “I can’t blame you for being angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Círdan said, dragging a chair over to the edge of the tub and sitting down. Maglor raised an eyebrow. “Alright,” Círdan said. “I’m a little put out, I’ll admit. But it’s been a long time, even for you.”

“I know,” Maglor said. He kept his eyes downcast, his long, slender fingers tracing idle patterns over the surface of the water. 

Círdan sighed again, his annoyance melting away. He never had been able to stay angry with Maglor for long. He leaned over and picked up a comb from the table by the bed. “Sit up,” Círdan said.

“Bossy as ever,” Maglor said, grinning. He sat up straight, and Círdan dragged his chair to the head of the basin. He began to gently brush the snarls from Maglor’s long, black hair, and for a long while, there was silence between them. Maglor tipped his head back and let his eyes fall closed, luxuriating in the feeling of cleanness and the steady work of Círdan ’s hands.

Círdan worked slowly, carefully, and at last the job was done. He set the comb aside and picked up a towel, squeezing the water from Maglor’s hair until it was merely damp. He worked the strands into a simple braid, which he carefully laid outside the basin. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you dry. You’ll catch cold.”

“Damp and chill haven’t killed me yet,” Maglor said wryly. “I doubt your bathwater will do the job.”

“Stay there and shrivel then,” Círdan said, and Maglor laughed, a familiar, musical sound that made Círdan smile at him fondly. It had been many years since he’d heard that laugh, and Círdan hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. Maglor reached for a towel, and Círdan turned away to give him a moment to dress. 

When he finished, Maglor padded over to the bed and sat down, his fingers tracing approvingly over the soft linen of the pillowcase. “I missed this place,” he said, and he turned to look up at Círdan . “I missed you too, ship-master.”

Círdan reached out and stroked his cheek, still soft from the bath. Maglor caught Círdan’s hand and held it, his calloused fingertips passing over the rough skin of Círdan ’s knuckles. “I was afraid you weren’t coming back,” Círdan said.

“I didn’t mean to be away so long,” Maglor said. “I’ve been meaning to get back for a long while now.”

“What kept you?”

Maglor’s face was troubled, and his words were slow when he spoke, as though he were choosing them carefully. “I was lost,” he said. “It sounds strange, for one who’s wandered this land as long as I, but it’s the truth. The world is changed, Ciryatan—so changed I hardly recognize it anymore.”

“I know,” Círdan said, but Maglor shook his head, as though Círdan couldn’t possibly know what he meant.

“Imladris is empty,” Maglor said. “But I suppose you knew that.” Círdan nodded, feeling a strange flash of guilt at the admission. “It was strange, being there,” Maglor said, his voice quiet and distant. “So strange not to find him there.”

“He regretted not seeing you before he left,” Círdan said, recalling the grief on Elrond’s face when at last he had boarded the ship. “He looked for you, right up until the last.”

“I always had a knack for disappointment,” Maglor said, and though he grinned, Círdan could see in his eyes the pain he sought to hide. “I see Artanis has finally gone as well.”

“And Celeborn,” Círdan said, “though he a good deal later than she.”

“All our people have gone,” Maglor said, and the bitterness in his words made Círdan wince.

“Not all,” Círdan said, and the look of relief that lighted Maglor’s face at the words sent a flood of affection through him. He reached for Maglor then, tilting his chin up to kiss him, and Maglor let himself be kissed, parting his lips and reaching out to take Círdan ’s face in his hands. He traced the line of Círdan’s cheekbone with his thumb, and Círdan shivered with the beautiful familiarity of it. For all that the world had changed, this at least had stayed the same, and Círdan clung to it, to him, and lost himself in the pleasure of it.

Later, they lay together in bed, tired and sated and happy. The fire burned low in the grate, and Maglor held Círdan in his arms, stroking his hair with slender, adroit fingers. Círdan’s cheek lay on Maglor’s chest, and he listened contentedly to the slow, steady beat of Maglor’s heart. “I’m glad you came back,” Círdan said, laying a hand on Maglor’s chest, his thumb stroking the soft flesh between his collarbones. 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” Maglor said.

“I almost wasn’t,” Círdan said. He hadn’t meant to said it, and he winced as he heard the words leave his lips. He shifted away and propped himself on an elbow to look at Maglor.

“You’re going, then,” Maglor said softly. His face was pained, but his eyes were hopeful as he looked at Círdan, willing it not to be true.

“Yes,” Círdan said, and hated himself for the sadness that flooded Maglor’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, stroking Maglor’s cheek.

Maglor shook his head. “I always knew you’d go someday,” he said, and he turned back to Círdan, smiling sadly. “I suppose I hoped it wouldn’t be just yet.”

“I’m not gone yet,” Círdan said, willing some reassurance into the words and knowing it was cold comfort at best.

“When?” Maglor asked.

“I don’t know,” Círdan said, and it was the truth. “Soon, I think.”

“The last ship to leave Middle-Earth,” Maglor said, and his words were reverent and bitter, and they stung.

“There’s a place for you on it,” Círdan said. “If you want it.” Maglor simply shook his head, and Círdan knew that he was right. There was no ship in the world that could bear Maglor where Círdan aimed to go, and they both knew it. 

Círdan looked at Maglor, took in the worn and weathered lines of the face he loved, stroked the tender skin of his cheek. “I’d stay,” he said softly, the words spoken softly, for Maglor alone. “If you asked me to.”

Maglor pulled him close, and Círdan buried his face in Maglor’s neck. Maglor stroked the skin between Círdan ’s shoulder blades and rested his cheek against the top of Círdan’s head. “You’ve loved me well all these years,” he murmured, breathing in the scent of Círdan’s skin. “Better than I deserved. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

“You could,” Círdan said, pushing himself up. He looked at Maglor’s worn and weathered face and reached out to trace the gentle curve of Maglor’s lips. 

“Love me, ship-master,” Maglor said, kissing Círdan’s fingertips reverently. “While I’m here, and we’re together.”

And Círdan did.

*****

Círdan woke alone, the bed cold beside him where Maglor had lain mere hours before. Círdan didn’t bother to look for him. He knew the old elf was gone, this time for good. It was time for him to do the same. 


End file.
